“Waves are like bellies,” Frank says. “They grow with time.”

Except Dave’s hasn’t. He and Dave have been buddies for maybe twenty years, and the tall cop’s belly is still washboard flat. When Dave isn’t surfing, he’s running, and, except for a cinnamon roll after the Gentlemen’s Hour, he doesn’t eat anything with white sugar in it.

“Cold enough for you?” Dave asks.

“Oh yeah.”

Yes, it is, even though Frank’s wearing an O’Neill winter suit with a hood and booties. It is damn cold water, and to tell the truth, Frank had considered giving the Gentlemen’s Hour a pass this morning for that reason. Except that would be the beginning of the end, he thinks, an admission of aging. Getting out there every morning is what keeps you young. So as soon as the kid Abe got in, Frank forced himself to climb into his wet suit, hood, and booties before he could chicken out.

But itis cold.

When he was paddling out and had to duck under a wave, it was like sticking his face into a barrel of ice.

“I’m surprised you’re out here this morning,” Frank says.

“Why’s that?”

“Operation G-Sting,” Frank says. “Funny name, Dave.”

“And people say we have no sense of humor.”

Except G-Sting is no joke, Dave Hansen thinks. It’s about the last vestiges of organized crime in San Diego bribing cops, councilmen-there might even be a congressman in the mix. G-Sting isn’t about strippers; it’s about corruption, and corruption is cancer. It starts small, with lap dances, but then it grows. Then it’s construction bids, real estate deals, even defense contracts.

Once a politician is on the hook, he’s hooked for good.

The mob guys know it. They know that you bribe a politician only once. After that, you blackmail him.

“Outside!” Frank yells.

A nice set coming in.

Dave takes off. He’s a strong guy, with an easy, athletic paddle-in, and Frank watches him catch the wave and get up, then drop down, ride the right-hand break all the way in, then hop off into the ankle-deep water.